Water Aid

It was the hottest day of the year so far. Sweltering. It was one of those days where you can feel the air resting on your shoulders and the sun burning the skin on your cheeks. I remember feeling like it would never be so hot again, or quite as dry. The searing heat cut through my body, scorching me, and my throat felt coarse due to lack of water.

“Lucy! Come here, I have drinks! You can’t be out in the midday sun without hydrating yourself!” My mother called from the backdoor of our house, her voice travelling the length of our garden to reach my red-tipped ears.

I ran quickly to meet her, clasping a glass between my hands, the condensation from our star-shaped ice cubes making my fingers slip. I rushed to drink and spilt some of the contents down my front, wetting my shirt as my mother laughed at it dribbling from my chin. I could feel the water run down the inside of my throat, it was satisfying; filling the parched cracks in my body, cooling my chest and giving me new life. I had just emptied the glass when my brother ran up behind me and I felt a blast of cold water hit my back. I squealed and turned on my heel, coming face to face with the barrel of a water gun — I ran as fast as I could, giggling the whole way, and tried to find a weapon of my own. The threat of eight-year-old mischief close behind me, I grabbed the garden hose and set it to "fan", I wanted to cover him, but not to hurt him. Not that water can do all that much damage.

After a valiant, hour-long battle between siblings, I was crowned the victor and we both went inside the house, our clothes soaked and our faces covered in water droplets.

“Look at you two! You are messes! We’re going to your cousins’ in less than half an hour and you look like drowned rats! Go and shower quickly, both of you! And then it’s time for birthday cake and a pool party!”

My brother and I looked up sheepishly at our mum, bursting into laughter as we ran off to shower. I let him go first; the oldest sibling is always forced into being sensible, and ambled to the living room to wait. Mum had left the news on; she always watched the news and sighed, as if she had given up on the rest of the world. I sank back into our big cream sofa and let my eyes blur, enjoying the cool breeze of the fan in corner of the room, when a new story flashed up on the TV screen: “Millions in dire need of assistance as Sahel drought crisis continues.” I felt my heart drop slightly. Images appearing in front of me, babies with ribs nearly piercing through their skin, mothers crying as they watch their children trying to scream, men walking with no shoes and their skin peeling from their feet. I couldn’t quite understand why these people had no water, we had lots, even in the hot weather.

“Mum!” I cried through the house, slightly desperate but hope running around my mind at the idea I just had.

“Yes, love? Are you okay? You look confused.” As she walked into the room and caught what was on TV her face turned into a frown, as though I had seen something that I shouldn’t have. “Oh my dear, is it upsetting you? I can turn it off if you want?”

“No. I don’t want it off. I want to help, mum. We have lots and lots of water, can we give some of our water to them?”

“Well, not exactly but you can use some of your birthday money to donate to a charity, if it’s what you really, really want, that would be very kind.”

I smiled at my mum, with all the confidence of an adult, and ran to get the money I had been given by my family the day before.

“Thank you! I hope they get some water soon.”

***

My arms are getting thinner. I can feel the bones through my skin now. I’m more scared for my sister though, she’s younger than I am and needs more. There’s never enough for all of us and it’s getting worse by the day. Walking around the makeshift tents and groups of malnourished children, I can feel the desperation of our people. My mother is in one of the emergency medical tents, getting treatment for an illness that would all be far more treatable if she weren’t dying of dehydration as well. Her body can’t cope with it for much longer, none of our bodies can; our only water source is miles away and only a few of us are strong enough to collect it.

“Oumar! My baby…” The hoarse voice of my mother reaches me, filling me with hope and wretchedness simultaneously. “Do you have water, my darling?”

“I’m so sorry Naa, there is none left, and we cannot make the journey to get it today, I think you may have to wait until tomorrow.”

She smiled sadly and told me that was okay, that she could hang on until the morning. I knew she was lying but I went along with it, she didn’t need to see me cry, on top of everything else. I took her hand, the dirt crusted into my fingertips crumbling against her rough skin, and told her that my sister was doing well, and that I was giving her all the water I could find; the older sibling has a duty to the younger children. I pray daily, hoping for some kind of miracle, although my heart sometimes wonders why it hasn’t come yet, and why so many of my family and friends have died. I leave my mother with her eyes shut, and go to find my sister.

“Oumar! Oumar, where are you?”

“I’m here, don’t worry, I’m here.”

“How is Naa?” Her first words are always for our mother.

“She’s feeling better, Hawa, don’t worry.” I never feel bad about lying to her, the truth would hurt her a lot more; and when our mother dies, it is my job to look after her.

“OUMAR! SOMEONE HAS HELPED US!” My best friend screams at me. I can’t imagine what he can be talking about, there have been no blessings in this town for a long time. But he keeps shouting. “Oumar! They are building a well! We are to have water, right here, we may live, thank you, thank you!”

My heart leaps up into my throat and my head is spinning, the idea that we might survive is so completely impossible to me that I can’t stand, and I sink to the floor as my sister cradles my head in her arms, weeping alongside the other children that crowd around us. When I can balance again, I run to my mother and tell her. She sobs. I look up to the sky and breathe:

“Thank you.”